Tag: literally stories

Short Fiction

Week 415 – Spartans, 65 Days Short Of A Year And 8 Off Of Whatever The Fuck Off Of A Peugeot.

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This is week 415 but it is something special for me as I think(??) I’ve reached posting number 300.

Well slap me sideways and call me Susan.

Oh and let’s start where I’ve always been – Fuck off you snowflake cunts, I’m not advocating beating up women. In my life history that would never have happened for two reasons:

1. Respect of the strong and all ladies in my life.

2. Fear of the strong and all ladies in my life.

…I mean, I’m very surprised that I’ve reached Saturday Post number 300!! (I think! I’ve included yearly posts but as is my file, this is number 300)

Continue reading “Week 415 – Spartans, 65 Days Short Of A Year And 8 Off Of Whatever The Fuck Off Of A Peugeot.” →
Short Fiction

The Kid Who Thinks He’s Grown by Todd Mercer

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Cognitive Dissonance, my jazz combo, show signs of being on an upward swing, even though we left the audience at the altar last Fall when we almost but not quite played “A Love Supreme.” The show was a victim of unexpected interference from my day job, when my boss Ronnie was thrashed by the competition’s guys. I had to run to see him at the hospital minutes before we were planning to hit the stage. It was mandatory.

Some band members blame the inexplicably awol drummer, who prioritizes a half-week relationship over Cognitive Dissonance’s long-term reputation. Months of practice down the drain. However you frame the situation, our musical reach exceeded our grasp.

After I refund the ticket sales out of my own pocket, it’s ketchup soup and toaster leavings until Spring.

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Short Fiction

The Bad Elf by David Christopher Johnston

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Blood puddled like pureed cranberry sauce on the floorboards, seeping into cracks and staining the reindeer-skin rug. Erica the Elf sat in the cosy armchair by the fire – His chair – watching the red liquid trickle in tiny tributaries towards the television cabinet. She took a cigar from the box on the coffee table and lit it, letting the match scorch her fingers, the smell of smoke mingling with the metallic stench of death. Glancing at the Fat Man’s corpse lying semi-naked in the centre of the room, Erica dialled the emergency services number and waited.

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Short Fiction

The Darkroom by Freya Williams – Warning – content that some readers may find disturbing.

literallystories2014

Oh, how satisfying it will feel to fill that final gap on the wall! In just a few hours, his collection will be complete at last, the wall completely covered in carefully measured rows and columns of black and white stills. The precision of the white gaps (28 mm) between each photograph gives Andrew great pleasure – he has always been exceptionally neat. It is extraordinary how many memories are held, suspended, within these grains of film. His favourite is 8 across 6 up, the one with a small 36 inscribed on the bottom corner.

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Short Fiction

Keep Dancing by Antony Osgood

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‘I’m so sorry, I really wasn’t paying attention,’ the middle-aged man was told by an older woman. They were the same height. George, being six foot three, had found the novelty of not looking down for their conversation quite refreshing, though he suspected in the morning he’d discover a plethora of aching muscles he never once suspected he possessed. Her attention was fixed on undexterous fingers shaking an empty not-quite-glass, a bubbly flute of clouded plastic. It was as if, George imagined, the last drop of wine had proven impossible for her to access, and for the life of her she had found no way to solve the puzzle. She kept holding the flute up to the noisy strip-light, seemingly either looking for fingerprints or a miracle. She appeared forensic in her analysis of unobtainable alcohol. George was reminded of a video he’d once seen on YouTube, of a goldfish obsessed with its image in a mirror. The poor fish had been unable to free itself from the mistaken belief it was threatened by itself. It was the saddest thing George had seen.

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Short Fiction

The Other One by Richard Leise

literallystories2014

The woman at the door stared at the children.  She was pregnant.  Seven months low to the ground with what she knew to be a boy.  She ran a hand up and down her stomach.  It had snowed overnight, and it was snowing still.   

The boy and the girl were sixteen or seventeen.  Maybe younger.  Neither was dressed for the weather.  Blue jeans and black t-shirts.  Black sneakers. 

“They want to come in,” she said. 

“Who did they say they were, again?” 

The woman looked through the glass eyehole, past the strange children.  A white horizon absent direction.  There were no tracks in the snow.  It was windy, and the wind pushed and pulled the fallen snow.  Still, it would have been nice to see tracks.   

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Literally Reruns, Short Fiction

Literally Reruns – Everything Happens For a Reason by Adam West

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Ah, the brave year of ‘15. No matter the century, I’m certain that someone will claim that she/he walked ten miles uphill through snow both ways to and from school, upon recalling 2015. Time distorts perception and makes exaggerant raconteurs of us all.

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All Stories, Editor Picks, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Week 414: UserTube; Another Milestone in Scotland; the Remains of the Week and YouTube Fascinations

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UserTube

I don’t like TikTok much because it encourages the further curtailment of an already alarmingly short public attention span. I sometimes think that maybe we are being steadily prepped for a future in which chips will be planted in our brains at birth. In the year 3000 “slow” will describe someone who actually takes a second to think something over. No, not much for TikTok, but I do like YouTube, well, to a point, yet there is something happening on it that makes me howl with rage.

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Short Fiction

Wig Shop by Jon Fotch

literallystories2014

He sat on the couch with his arms crossed around his middle like he was hiding something precious from some malevolent authority.

“I think I might have gone,” he said.

In a moment the water stopped to a drip in the kitchen sink.

“I’m coming,” she said.  

She went to him compressed by the years. Shrunken like wool in the dryer. Her shoulders pushed down from holding all the clouds above the world.

She helped him to the bathroom.

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Short Fiction

 The Girl Who Does Not Exist by Kaela Li

literallystories2014

It is far too quiet for a room with two people, a room where the brush of bare feet on wooden floorboards struggles to fill the air. A room where dim, flickering shadows writhe unbidden across the wall, called forth by a candle sputtering futilely in the corner. It is the silence of empty air where people ought to be, and the bar is fully brimming with it.

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